


Devil's Atelier

by 0027



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-02-28 08:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18752791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0027/pseuds/0027
Summary: There's a boy with stark, white hair who sits in front of your family's bakery. You don't know where he's from, or why he's here. He doesn't even have a name. You think,what a weird person. Never seen him around the neighborhood either. And there you are, befriending the strange boy that comes and goes as he pleases.(He reminds you of a cat, somewhat. Acts like one for sure.)





	1. Tony Redgrave

Strange things often happen in this part of town, you’ve noticed that much through the years. Once the sun sets, streetlights flicker and the sky is always darker here than anywhere else in the city. Your mother would tuck you in bed at nine, remind you to lock the doors, the windows, draw the curtains.  _Don’t peek outside_ , she’d say,  _don’t mind the coyotes when they yowl at night._

They don’t hunt in packs but you’d always hear more than one.

The boy with snow white hair and scraped skin slumped in front of your family’s bakery one morning is no less strange than the other events that happen around this neighborhood. What is strange is the silence that follows him. You don’t hear the coyotes at night after his arrival, and the crows don't caw.

As if the air around him is stagnant.

There’s something about him that rubs you the wrong way and makes your hair stand on ends. He wears a peculiar amulet that glows an unnerving shade of ruby— blood crimson when the light hits it the right way in the evening. Hours pass since you first see him upon sunrise, and now that it’s finally setting, you crouch beside the boy with a day old bread in hand.

“Are you hungry?”

He lifts his gaze up to you, then down at the bread. You offer it towards him, and he takes a moment before accepting it into his own hands. They’re dirty, you notice, covered in soot and dirt.

“Are you thirsty?”

Chapped lips and sunken, tired eyes are enough to answer your question. But you wait, and he rewards you with a nod, white locks falling over his face. The boy holds his head low.

“Okay, wait here.”

When you return with a glass of water, you expect him to be gone. To disappear without a trace. Much to your surprise, the boy still sits there, back against the bakery’s large window pane, knees bent upwards against his chest. The bread is halfway eaten.

“Here,” you extend your hand to give him the drink. He cants his head your way, and takes it just the same. There’s no word of gratitude, not immediately anyway. Not until he finishes the glass in several big gulps, exhaling audibly, that he croaks out a  _thank you_  you barely hear. It sounds like he has gravel in his throat.

“What’s your name?”

He looks like he’s contemplating hard on the answer, deflating when he says, “I don’t know.”

Odd. You tilt your head, brows furrowed. “What do you mean you don’t know your name? Everyone has a name.”

“My mom told me to find a new name,” and he finally looks at you, a pair of eyes the color of a clear afternoon sky striking you to lose track on your words. Your lips stay parted, and you blink.

“Why do you need a new name?”

“I need to hide and run away from something,” he looks away again, and you’re almost disappointed to see the ceruleans turn to the bricked pavement instead being on you. “I need to start a new life.”

“Oh.” It’s the best consolation you can muster, heavy silence hanging in the air. But you have another question— you have so many of them that you end up sitting where you were just crouching. “What are you running from?”

“Demons.”

“Well, I’m not a demon.”

“...” He studies you for a while behind the bangs that are too long for his face. “You don’t look like one,” he agrees. “Don’t act like one either.”

“Yup. So we need to find you a new name.” You ponder, chin resting on the knuckles of your fingers as you look past the street ahead. It’s empty now. The hues of the sky have turned from golden and orange to shades of pink and purple. A sign for the neighborhood to go back into their houses, lock the doors behind them, and start cooking for dinner as they draw their curtains close. “How about Tony?” you suggest after a minute against the backdrop of a rapidly darkening sky. Your mother will call for you soon.

“Tony?” he asks. “Why Tony?”

“He’s a character from my favorite book,” you say. “He wears red coats and you look like you’d look good in red too.” Yeah, you can imagine how it’ll contrast against the clear, white hair and striking blue eyes. You nod. He’ll look good in red, you decide. Just like the Tony from your favorite book.

“...Okay. Tony then. What about my last name?”

“What about Redgrave?”

“The city?”

“Yeah. This is where I found you.”

“You didn’t find me,” Tony counters. “I just happened to be here.”

“I found you,” you insist. “You’re right in front of my family’s bakery. Anyway, how old are you?”

Tony doesn’t argue with you, or try to rebut your statement. He presses his lips together instead, knowing you have a point. He is  _lost_ , and he has nowhere to go. What happens to things that are lost?

If they’re not gone forever, then they’re eventually _found_.

“I’m ten,” he finally answers.

“Oh, that means we’re the same age.”

“Okay. So where do I go now?” Genuine loss colors the glint in his eyes, expectant as he peeks at you, thin-lipped.

You frown, shifting in your seat so you turn to face him. There’s a serious look on your face, trying your best to find a solution that works. “You can’t stay here, Tony. My mother won’t like it, she’s  _paranoid_.”

“Paranoid?” He makes a face. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, something like always scared of bad things happening.” You give him a shrug. “To be fair, bad things always happen here.”

In his heart, he agrees. Tony remembers his own mother, and the closet he was hiding in just a day ago.  _Bad things always happen here_. Maybe he should be paranoid, too.

“Anyway, I think I know a place you can go to. Just down the street, two blocks away,” you turn to your right, pointing at the road ahead. “Townhouse number 717. Mrs. Goldstein lives there. You said you’re running from demons, right?”

“Yeah,” Tony confirms. “I am.”

“She makes guns and she’s strong.” Your head turns towards your new friend, giving him an approving bob of your head. “She protected me once before against a demon, so she can protect you too.”

“Really?” There’s a skeptical look shot towards you. “She can protect me?”

“I’m sure she can. The demon that attacked me was big,” you add, gesturing as you recall the memory. “It had horns and giant claws.” But the darkness is starting to settle, and you hear your mother calling out for you from inside the house. “You should hurry before night falls. You should also tuck your necklace,” your point at it, “under your shirt.”

“Why?” Tony’s already standing up, his half-eaten bread still clutched in one hand.

“The thieves will want it,” you tell him. “It’s gold and shiny. My mother says they kill to get shiny things because they’re worth a lot.”

 _It is worth a lot_ , Tony thinks. So he takes up your advice and tucks it underneath the worn down shirt he’s wearing, his free hand cupping it over the fabric. “Okay.” He starts walking off, then stops mid step to turn back. “What’s your name?"

You bend over to pick up the empty glass, and tell him your name. Tony nods, repeats it. Finds that it rolls nicely off his tongue, and you think he seems pleased with himself.

“You can come visit me,” you say, just as he opens his mouth to ask a question. Looks like you answered whatever is left unspoken, because he doesn't ask it anymore. “We’re friends now.”

Confusion paints his expression. “Friends? Since when did we become friends?”

“Just now,” you repeat. “Weren’t you listening? I even gave you a name.”

And he can’t win against you, he figures sooner than later. It’s difficult to go against the resolute tone of your voice, especially when your eyes reflect his own in them. Tony sees himself. He sees you. With a contemplative stare and a big shrug, he licks his dry lips in an attempt to soothe it (ends up stinging instead). “Alright. We’re friends now. I’ll see you around, then.”

“Yup,” you flash him a light smile, and he realizes that’s the first time your lips curl upwards throughout the conversation. It doesn’t look so bad— makes the boy wonder if he should smile too. Would that make him look better? Your hand is already on the handle of your door, one foot in. “I’ll see you around, Tony.”

Just like that, you disappear behind the sound of a bell ringing and door clicking shut before he can return the sentiment to you.


	2. First Moon

Who is Tony?

The Tony you know, the one you named, sits beside you while your question’s tossed up in the air. You’re back where you first saw him; in front of your family’s bakery, by the large display window, except this time the sun has barely risen and the people haven’t yet awoken from their slumber.

Mornings in Red Grave are quaint and calm in this side of the city, contrasting the nights where the air is thick and heavy with something you can’t pinpoint. People call it miasma; you’re not sure what that means. Dew and the crisp, cool air feels clean, unlike the dread that looms in chilly evenings. But your mother doesn’t let you out once the sun fully sets anyway, and you don’t think you’ll ever know what it feels like to stare at the moon and the stars. If it’s not hidden by the city smog, and the bright lights of houses and buildings.

After all, the demons roam, guided under the moon and stars, and you’re nothing but a small child. Easy picking for monsters.

“So who’s Tony?” he asks again, freshly baked breads and two tall glasses of milk— the breakfast menu you share— settles in between. Tony has his on his lap.

Difference being, you have a book on yours.

Distracted by the warm bread, and the scent of butter wafting through the vicinity, you raise a finger to tell him _wait_ as you take a bite of your food. The taste is as you know so well; savory, a hint of sweetness, and the soft texture still fresh from the oven. They’re the best kind of bread, you think, and best eaten this way too. It’s a life philosophy.

“Eat before it gets cold,” you tell him, taking a sip of your milk.

Like always, he does as you say, stuffing the bread into his mouth. Tony pauses, blinks, and his eyes widen.

“This is _good_ ,” his voice is muffled, but it doesn’t stop his amazement from bleeding out. You can’t help the splitting grin.

“I know.”

Behind the smugness of your tone, there’s genuine cheer to be sharing something that means a lot to you with your new friend. Something you like, and have him like it too. You believe he deserves this much; clean clothes, patched up wounds, a hearty meal and some company. Because you think he looks a little lonely, and very, very lost. Looked, you suppose. He seems much better now.

“So you were gonna tell me about Tony in the book? Your favorite character?” he says, finishing up his bread and sipping from the glass of milk, eyeing your book.

“Yup,” you say, taking another bite, sifting through the pages. “Just give me a moment to find it… Hey, how’s Mrs. Goldstein treating you?”

“The old lady?” Tony hums, both hands now on either sides of his glass, chugging down the milk. There’s a white mustache above his lips that he licks clean. “She’s nice. I told her you told me to go here, and then I told her what happened. Told me to call her Nell though.”

“Really?” You hadn’t known of her full name before this. Nell Goldstein. “Oh, here it is. Tony.”

Finger on the paragraph, you turn the novel his way, and it makes him squint at the letters. He leans closer, reading it slowly under his breath.

“...he whips two pistols from the holsters, twirling them in his hands: Obsidian and Ivory? Hey, that sounds cool. Can you really twirl guns like that?”

“I’ve seen Mrs. Goldstein do it,” you shrug. “So I’m guessing with practice, you can do it too. Maybe you can ask her to teach you.”

“You know, that sounds like a pretty good idea.”

Pride swells in your chest, and you puff up just a bit. Tony looks at you, somewhat amused, but you give him a toothy grin and he can’t help shoot one back.

“Thanks,” you say. “You need to protect yourself from the demons anyway.”

“I do,” he agrees and finishes the last of his milk. Sometimes he still hears them roaming at night, or maybe they’re roaming in his nightmares as he recalls the day his mother and brother disappeared. But you don’t need to know that, and he doesn’t want to think about it either. “Okay, I’m gonna go and ask Nell if she can teach me!”

You watch as Tony jump from where he’s been sitting, and you close your novel to offer it to him. “Do you want to read it?”

Blue eyes find their way to look into yours, then flicker towards the novel. Tony gives a contemplative hum, finger tapping his chin, staring up at the brightening sky then back down below. _It’s not too thick_ , he thinks, _never been much of a reader but…_

“Okay,” he finally nods, taking it. “I’ll read it. I wanna see what this Tony guy does. Since you named me after him.”

“Okay! Tell me what you think of it once you’re done,” you chirp, giddy that he’s interested in reading your favorite book, favorite story with your favorite character. He even thinks Tony is _cool_.

“I will,” he hands you the empty glass, “and thanks again for the bread and milk.”

“No problem. I’ll meet you at the park later afternoon?”

“Mhm,” Tony’s head bobs in affirmation. “Like usual.”

“Gotcha.”

That becomes the routine the two of you fall into: breakfast in front of your bakery in the morning, or sometimes you’d go visit Mrs. Goldstein with a basket of assorted, freshly baked breads. Afternoon is to play in the park with Tony, in the sandbox and slides, the swings and the see-saw. Other times, you’d find yourself chatting, talking about your family, and him?

Eerily, he never speaks of them. You wonder if he has any.

But nowadays, he talks more and more about Mrs. Goldstein. Or as he calls her, _Nell_ , and her son Rock that visits from time to time. Maybe they’re his family, you guess. What about you? Are you part of his new, little family? After finding him ragged in front of your bakery, you’d like to think he is a part of yours.

You should ask that the next time you meet him. Tomorrow, at the park, because he can’t have breakfast with you since he's got an errand to run: “ _Am I your family?_ ”

(So far, Tony's only failed to tell you when he's busy and got to go twice. And both times, he comes back when he can to tell you he's sorry. You always forgive him. He always smiles.)

Except that day, you don’t find Tony at the playground. Or at least, there’s someone who looks like Tony. Same height, same snow white hair; slicked back, for some reason. All unlike the style Tony sports, with his bangs covering part of his sky eyes that tends to annoy you. And they always fall back down when you try to swipe them to the side. This Tony look alike has got a sword strapped to his back, and blankly stares at the playground.

It makes you halt and frown. You know how Tony looks; and he looks exactly like him, save for the hairstyle. But that’s not Tony. As gloomy as your friend can be sometimes, his eyes has never been narrowed so much. He’s never frowned that deep.

That boy, his stare looks _mean_.

“Tony?” you call out anyway, walking towards him and catches his attention. He stares, wordless, and it feels like forever before he answers.

“You have the wrong person.”

“...Okay…” You figured that much, but the sheer coldness in his tone makes you hesitate. Stop in your steps. “Then who are you?”

The mystery boy— he falls silent one more time. You shift in place, a couple feet away from where he stands.

“Gilver.”

“Gilver?”

He nods. So you scrutinize him, and the awkward quietness is like a prelude to a disaster. Not that you notice the atmosphere, too busy trying to figure out why he looks so much like Tony and why he’s standing in the middle of the park.

It should be Tony there. He’s not playing a prank on you, is he?

But then you realize, he seems a little lost. Not as much as Tony was when he was slumped in front of your bakery. Maybe _aimless_ would be a better word to use; it’s a word you read in your favorite book.

If _aimless_ can be personified, then you think it would look like this Gilver boy.

“Are you waiting for something?” you try to continue the conversation, and Gilver’s responses are never immediate. He waits, and sits on it, and then he’ll reply after you’ve almost given up. After you’ve almost decided to sigh, call it a day, and leave him be.

“No,” he says, turning away. “Just visiting. I’ll be going now.”

“...Oh, okay.” You never get the chance to tell him that he looks similar to a friend of yours. You don’t get the chance to ask him to stay, and ask if he knows of the nameless boy you dubbed Tony. Because the way his back looks as Gilver walks away is alien and estranged; seems so far and out of your reach. Closed in, shelled, leaving so many things up in the air. And so many more probably buried under Gilver’s tongue.

You try to tell him _wait_ , but your voice doesn’t come out the way you want it to and you watch him disappear around the corner of the street up ahead.

Then again, it dawns on you, there’s not a lot of white-haired, blue-eyed children around. If any at all, aside from your friend and the boy who just left moments ago. You wonder if Gilver’s figured it out himself; there’s a Tony, and the Tony you called out to looks like him.

The question is, does he know?

Except you won’t have a chance to ask, or figure it out. Not any time soon. You wait on the swing for an hour, maybe two hours, messing around with the sand and playing tag with a group of other kids who visit the park around the same time you do. They ask you the same thing you ask yourself:

“Hey, where’s Tony?”

Dismayed and without an answer, you shrug and tell them, “I don’t know.”

That day, you trudge home earlier than usual, passing by Mrs. Goldstein’s townhouse and finds that the lights are out, doors locked, curtains drawn. Is no one home? It’s not a wonder if they’ve gone off somewhere, maybe a vacation out of town.

What’s weird is, if they did go, Tony would’ve told you like he always does.

So you wait, the next day, and the next, till you lose track of the weeks and he’s nowhere to be found. Neither is Gilver; disappearing like a ghost, never seeing him around the neighborhood since that day at the park. It really tickles your nose, raises your suspicion about it being Tony playing tricks on you.

Still, you’re unable to fool yourself. Tony’s not a good actor, and you know that because he couldn’t even hide his distaste for the olives in a slice of leftover pizza you two ate once for breakfast. Written all over his face, twisting his nose. The prankster theory seems pretty implausible when you recall that memory. A _doppelgänger_ , then? Or better yet, a **twin**?

In the end, three months pass, Mrs. Goldstein’s house remain empty and Tony doesn’t swing by like he has been for the past six.

Until he shows up at your bakery door, one evening, as the sky’s turning into a hue of indigo where the sun’s barely peeking on the horizon. Three times knocking on the wood; your mother thinks it’s a bad omen. You squint through the peephole, against your mother’s advice as she yells from the kitchen: “Don’t open the door!”

But what affronts you is a familiar face, and a pair of clear blue eyes that are cast in the shadows from the ill lighting. Despite that, they strike you so your eyes widen, and Tony stands there under the flickering streetlights.

Warnings forgotten, you open the door as silent as you can, slipping out with a whisper: “Tony?”

"Hey,” he greets, voice hoarse. Tony clears his throat and runs his hand through his hair, pushing it back. You’re instantly reminded of someone, but it’s not the time to say it.

There’s a more pressing matter at hand.

“Where have you been?”

“...Sorry.”

That’s not the answer you’re looking for. “Are you injured anywhere?”

Tony shakes his head.

“Where have you been?” you repeat.

“We had to go,” he explains, inhaling, turning away, “run away for a bit. There were things following me.”

“Are they still following you?”

“No,” his head shakes again, “Nell took care of them. She got injured so we… so…”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” says Tony.

“You don’t get to decide that. If it’s your fault, then the jury will decide you’re at fault. There has to be facts presented, and there are laws,” you insist. “I learned that from Mrs. Orwell from across the street. She’s a lawyer.”

Tony’s lips turn twisty; as if he wants to smile, maybe laugh, but can’t bring himself to fully enjoy the humor. But he relents, and gives in. As always. But he’s still not looking at you. “Okay. If you say so.”

“Do you want to come in?”

“I couldn’t come in last time.” He finally gives you a puzzled stare. “Why now?”

“I don’t know,” you tell him, shrugging. “It’s been three months, Tony. Besides, my mom knows you now.”

“I think Nell will be looking for me, though. After what happened.”

After a short moment of pondering the point he brings up, you nod your head, agreeing. “Yeah, you’re right. You’ll be around tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” he lifts a pinky up, “I will.”

You hook yours over his. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“You’ll have to swallow a thousand needles if you break it.”

“That doesn’t sound very nice.” Tony’s expression scrunches up.

“It doesn’t,” you shake your entwined hands up and down for a moment before letting go. “That’s why you’ve gotta keep your promise.”

“ _Mmkay_. I’ll definitely keep it.”

However, the next morning; you find no sign of Tony, who’d usually knock at your door, or sit by the window and wait for you. Heart, pounding in your chest, you pace quickly with a basket of bakery goods your mother’s given to gift to Mrs. Goldstein, who she heard is sick. But you know the truth; she isn’t sick. She got injured. And there’s a big difference there. Of course, you consider the possibility that Tony’s overslept. After all, he looked rather harrowed last night. And just as you ring the doorbell, the door swings open, revealing Tony whose hair is still a mess atop his head.

Laughter slips out of you like water, though it’s a bit quiet, and laced with relief. And in turn, he stares at you with surprise, looking as if he’s seen a rabbit jump out of a rustling bush.

“You look ridiculous,” you comment.

“Shut up.”

“I brought some bread for Mrs. Goldstein. Is she doing better?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “she is. She was yelling at me to get her some water. I, uh,” Tony clears his throat, “overslept.”

At the same time, your voice overlaps with his and asks, “Overslept?”

He simply gives you a sheepish look. “Yep.”

“Well, that’s fine. I’m here anyway. Can I come in?”

“Sure!” There’s a bit of excitement in the way he says the word. A bit of a bounce. And you can’t help the happiness stretching your cheeks into a toothy grin. “We’ll go up to Nell’s bedroom together, and you can give her the bread basket.”

“Okay!”

The door shuts behind you then, and your days continue on as normal for the next three nights. Until, in the middle of your sleep, when twilight’s fallen and the clouds are thick, you’re awoken with a startle and your mother’s panicked voice. It vaguely smells of smoke, and crimson reflects off the window where the curtains are oddly drawn open. And you take a hold of your mother’s hand immediately, jumping out of the bed, running down the stairs barefoot and into the car as she drove the two of you out of town.

To your uncle’s, she says, until this dies down.

Firefighters on their trucks are wheeling down the road, their distant shouts muffled, spiking as your mother drives past them. Police cars, cops, civilians clamor the streets; hands over their mouths, tears down their faces. The scent of burning wood and flesh is so prominent in the air that you swear you smell it from the inside of the car, although all the windows are rolled up, and you’re tucked behind the seat belt, gripping it with tight knuckles, nails digging into your palms.

You haven’t said goodbye to Tony yet, you think. Or the other kids. You remember the question you’d wanted to ask and forgotten. Will he look for you? Worry, the way you did for him? Probably. He _did_ go to your house first thing he returned that night after three months of disappearance, even though the sun had gone down. He also never leaves you hanging for too long, when he can. You hope you can do the same for him, after the fire's gone. Then, everything should return to normal. And your mind’s in so much of a jumble that you don’t bother thinking about all the things you’ll lose to the angry, greedy flames, only hoping that you'd return soon enough to tell the others you're alright. To tell Tony you're alright.

Now, you've got your head’s craned to stare at the smoke billowing into the heavens, gaze crested atop the sky where you can see not even a hint of a star. The moon hangs there, all lonesome. And just like the color of dying leaves, it reflects the hues of red against what would’ve otherwise been a glow of white. (But you don’t know that; no, not when this is the First Moon you’ve laid your eyes on in the dark blanket of midnight. It's too bad that you don't get to dance under the galaxy in your first dusk out, or on the swing at the park, flying as far from the ground and as close as you can to the twinkling in the sky.) You sink back into your seat, the grip on your seat belt not loosening, as exhaustion begins to wash over you.

One last time, you glance out the window, consciousness slipping. From behind your lashes as they draw closer and closer to darkness, you see the a terrible figure of a great shadow looming between brick walls of burning buildings. Closing in the curtains at sunset, locking the doors at nightfall, and heading to bed before nine while you ignore the wailing coyotes that has yowled louder than ever before tonight couldn't stop the blaze in its path. Clockwork begins to tick in you. _Tick, tock, tick tock_. You think nothing could've helped it. _In fact, you think none of those things your mother has told you to do all your life possess the ability to prevent anything at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather delayed, but I do hope you enjoy nonetheless! I surely enjoyed writing this chapter. Thank you for those who have been looking forward to reading more and waited. Here's to you all!


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